Still, I always figured if I did get one, it would be a design of my choosing. Something important. Something meaningful.
Something I wouldn’t mind looking at for the rest of my life.
“What are you waiting for, mon capitaine?” the tree hugger shouts, oblivious to the challenge taking place. “Get it done so we can celebrate!”
A cheer goes up from Flamingo Boy’s friends, and it seems to work in my favor.
“You’re on.”
I hold out my hand, and he shakes it. His grip is firm—no surprise there—but gentle as his calloused hand envelops mine. Literally. My hand disappears inside his much larger one.
You know what they say about guys with big hands….
My pulse quickens, and I give silent thanks he can’t read my mind.
“Are you ready?” Camila holds the full beer bong in one hand and the cock mouthpiece in the other.
I hesitate, but only for an instant. “How does it work?”
Camila explains that she will count us down to ensure we start our tasks at the same time, and then she shows me how to open the valve on the bong.
I’ve never used a beer bong in my life, and I have no clue how long it will take me to chug an entire beer, so I’m hoping Flamingo Boy’s chili lives up to the hype.
Otherwise, it’ll be my butt in the tattoo chair.
“En sus marcas!” Camila shouts. She raises her arms, and a polite round of applause fills the air.
I roll my shoulders, and then I press my thumb to the valve on the pink penis. “We’re really doing this.”
“Listos!”
Flamingo Boy holds his chili up for closer inspection. “Good luck.”
“You too. You’re going to need it.”
“Fuer!” Camila’s arms drop and the bar goes wild.
I cover the mouthpiece with my hands—no way am I going to be photographed sucking on a plastic penis—and release the valve.
Beer floods my mouth, triggering my gag reflex. I close the valve as a thin stream of Corona leaks out of my mouth.
How the heck do people do this without drowning themselves?
“Come on, Ava! You can do this!”
I’m not sure which of my roommates is cheering for me, but she’s right. I can do this.
I have to if I don’t want to end up with a ratchet tattoo.
I shudder and steal a glance at my competition. He’s chewing, but judging from the mostly uneaten chili in his hand, it was a small bite. A fine sheen of sweat coats his face, and his cheeks are so red, it’s a wonder he hasn’t burst a blood vessel.
There’s no way he’s going to finish, right?
Doesn’t matter. I can’t afford to fall behind.
I open the valve slowly, attempting to control the flow of beer, but it doesn’t help. The bitter liquid hits my tongue and I gag, but this time, I force myself to swallow.
One down, God only knows how many to go.
